a Night Too Dark (2010) (13 page)

Eight

FOURTH OF JULY

There was tremendous scope for a fertile imagination in being the sole owner and proprietor of 160 acres in a place where daylight in summer went almost 24/7. Plants avid to exploit the photosynthetic process exploded out of the ground almost before you could step back out of their way. Every year Kate reveled in the act of throwing out a handful of seeds and telling them, “Show me what you’ve got.” Sometimes the shrews and the sparrows got to the seeds first, but often enough she was rewarded on her rambles over the homestead by a tiny burst of color on her peripheral vision. A California poppy, say, reaching up through the surrounding grass on a single trembling stem, a triumphant shout in Creamsicle orange. Or she might stumble onto a clump of pink pussytoes curled up next to a tall, elegant delphinium, the deep blue of an Arctic summer solstice sky at midnight. Three years before she’d planted a Philippe Rivoire peony, mostly because she liked the name. Then a single, six-inch stem with four modest leaves that had cost her $2.49 at Auntie Balasha’s annual spring garage sale,
she’d stuck it into the ground in a clear spot next to a stand of diamond willow a mile from her cabin and walked away.
Last summer when she and Mutt had made their annual hike to the Lost Wife Mine to make sure the entrance was still securely blocked against the unwary or the reckless wilderness explorer, she was rewarded with a brilliant splash of red so bright that for just a second she had thought it was a brush fire. The single stem had morphed into a bloom-covered bush that was taller than she was and as wide as her two arms outstretched. On the way home she had cut half a dozen stems and back at the house stuck them in a decorative plastic bucket, over which Johnny pretended to warm his hands every night for a week.
The wildflowers needed no encouragement. The deep purple spire of monkshood, its cluster of closed blooms giving off an air of mystery, appeared and disappeared around every bend of trail. Dainty forget-me-nots clustered half-hidden on the shadowy edges of tree and shrub, tiny pale blue flowers delicate by contrast to almost everything else in the forest. Fireweed revealed itself in unexpected patches of blazing magenta, and western columbine spread across any otherwise unoccupied space to duke it out with chocolate lilies and Sitka roses. Military rows of arctic lupine had shouldered aside every other single living plant in their march to line the trail between road and homestead, and Kate was fighting a delaying action to prevent their conquering the clearing in front of the house.
After an idyllic month of sun leavened by comfortably spaced periods of soft, almost warm rain, the garden burst to overflowing. Rhubarb with leaves the size of elephant ears formed a lush line at the garden’s edge. Strawberries, tiny scarlet gems nestled in clusters of furry leaves, enjoyed the shade of a strategic grouping of white birch. Raspberry canes leaned heavily against tomato cages co-opted for the purpose beneath the prospect of a bumper crop come August. Blueberry bushes drooped beneath the weight of
fruit promising to be the size of Kate’s thumb in a month’s time. The potato patch was a riot of leaf, the carrots a sturdy row of feathery tops, the cabbage and cauliflower and broccoli pushing each other for room.
The half-dozen rugosa roses her mother had planted the summer following Kate’s birth were now a waist-high hedge next to the rock seat at the cliff’s edge and in ebullient and aromatic bloom. The rock was warm from the sun and she wriggled her backside into it with hedonistic pleasure, adjusted the throw pillow between her lower back and the natural shelf formed by the rock, and allowed herself to be seduced by the strong, sweet scent of the roses. A bee nuzzled the front of her T-shirt, a mosquito whined past her ear, and a golden-crowned sparrow trilled nearby. Water tumbled and jostled its way downstream between the narrow, rocky banks below, and she smiled without opening her eyes. If the weather held, the swimming hole would be warm enough for skinnydipping by tomorrow. Maybe even by this afternoon.
There was a low murmur from the radio perched nearby. Bobby Clark was narrating the Fourth of July parade on Park Air Live. “And here comes the veterans’ float, Jeff Talbot driving his Army surplus jeep—HOO-ah!—with Demetri Totemoff and George Perry in the back throwing candy hard enough to overshoot the Kanuyaq River. Ouch! Goddammit, Perry, watch where the hell you’re throwing that stuff! Ouch!”
A background murmur, probably Bobby’s wife Dinah in soothe mode. One of them had to remember Bobby was on the air, although since it was a pirate radio station that changed broadcast frequency pretty much daily it wasn’t like the Federal Communications Commission was ever going to catch up with him. A delighted scream too close to the mike made Kate and Mutt both jump. Bobby and Dinah’s four-year-old daughter, Katya, named for Kate. Delivered by Kate, if it came to that, and on the day of her parents’ wedding, no
less, at which Kate had not only officiated but also stood up for both bride and groom. That had been one fraught day.
“Oh, well now.” Bobby’s rich baritone rolled out of the radio. “Here comes Max Chaney’s flatbed bearing Miss Niniltna, whose day job is Luba Lindeman, and let me tell you gentlemen who couldn’t make the parade today, you should see the red dress our own pride of Niniltna is almost wearing. All the way to China, guys, no shit—ouch! Goddammit, Dinah!”
“Goddammitdinah!” Katya said.
Park Air vanished from the airwaves for a few seconds, but Kate, veteran of many a Niniltna parade, could fill in the blanks. Luba would be perched on a pile of last year’s tanned wolf, beaver, mink, and marten hides donated by local trappers who hadn’t been able to unload them at the Fur Rendezvous fur auction in February. She would be wearing the gold-nugget and walrus-ivory crown made by local carver Thor Moonin. She would be attended by five other Niniltna High girls, all of them doing some combination of pageant, royal, and papal wave. They’d be giggling a lot.
They also represented six of the seven girls in the junior-senior class of Niniltna High. Vanessa would not be forming one of Luba’s court, not because she wouldn’t have been an ornament to float, town, and event, but because she and Johnny were both working out at Suulutaq. There at least was one reason to be grateful to the mine. Kate didn’t have to go into town for the parade.
The parade would be led by a bad-tempered Maggie Montgomery in uniform driving Jim’s Blazer. Jim had avoided leading the parade this time by contriving to have Kenny Hazen call him to Ahtna for an assist on an apprehension.
Park Air erupted back into life, Bobby’s voice sounding disgruntled. “—there’s Jimmy Moonin on his tricycle, although I don’t know what the hell he’s got on his head. Some kind of pad—Oh.” Kate later learned that seven-year-old Jimmy had appropriated one of
his mother’s Kotex pads and wrapped it around one eye. In the interests of verisimilitude he’d stained it with a liberal application of red food coloring, but that was not known by the people watching the parade.
Bobby rallied. “Kid’s got a hell of an arm on him, look at him field that Hershey bar! Way to go, Jimmy! Bernie Koslowski’s gonna be looking serious at you when it comes time to recruit for the basketball team! I’m thinking point guard!”
Bobby’s voice dropped to the low rumble that sounded like a Harley hog in neutral. A long time ago Kate had had the pleasure of hearing that rumble up close and personal, and she couldn’t stop a nostalgic shiver at the memory.
“A positive rain of Hershey bars out of the back of the Suulutaq dump truck, flung personally by mine superintendent Vern Truax in company with attendant nymphs. Vern tells me he’s let the nonessential employees off the chain for the day, which explains today’s record crowd. Just another show of goodwill on the part of Vern and the Suulutaq Mine, and I know we all—ouch! Goddammit, Dinah!”
Dinah’s voice came over the airwaves loud and clear, if more distant from the mike than Bobby’s. “The Suulutaq dump truck isn’t the only float in the parade.”
Kate looked at the radio. No one listening could have mistaken the edge in Dinah’s voice.
“Well, pardon fucking me!”
“Pardonfuckingme!” Katya said.
There was a growl and a squeal and a squawk and this time Park Air went off the air for good.
Just as well. The Grosdidiers would be bringing up the rear in their mustard yellow Silverado, Vern Truax would throw the last candy bar, and everyone would adjourn to the potluck barbecue at the gym, the games and races for the kids, and the Red Run Roustabouts
playing garage band rock and roll until midnight, when there would be fireworks detonated from the Grosdidier brothers’ dock. It would still be light out, so mostly people would see clouds of smoke drifting across the river in the half-light of a sun that was teetering its way around the horizon, but that was okay. Nobody expected anything different, and everyone enjoyed whining about it afterward.
She wondered if there was a chance of Jim getting back in time for a swim before they turned in for the night, and smiled to herself at the prospect.
For the moment she leaned back, closed her eyes, and wallowed in an Alaskan summer. Her enjoyment was all the richer because it was so unaccustomed. At this very moment she should have been counting fish on the deck of the
Freya
in Alaganik Bay, one boat to starboard, another to port, both crews pitching an unending silver cascade of red salmon over the gunnels and if she was lucky into the hold. Half a dozen more boats would be waiting their turn to deliver and more pulling their nets to get in line. Old Sam would be in the galley, writing out fish tickets and cursing fishermen and tender summaries and Fish and Game catch reports with a fine impartiality.
Instead, she had coerced Old Sam into hiring Petey Jeppsen in her place. Old Sam did not take kindly to newbies stumbling around his old wooden tub, tripping over head buckets and deck boards and mooring lines and incapable of telling a humpy from a dog, but after the requisite amount of grumbling, he took Petey on. When she shouted him down, he took on Phyllis Lestinkof as well. “Turning the
Freya
into a goddamn orphanage,” Old Sam said, but in about seven and a half months Phyllis was going to need every dime she could lay her hands on, and she knew her way around a drifter so deckhand on a fish tender wouldn’t be that big a learning curve.
Meanwhile, Kate remained on her homestead and attended to
her garden, reveling in the vibrant plant life, the warm temperatures, the hours she had to potter around doing long-delayed chores, or read a book. Or lie back on her rock and enjoy the sun on her face.
Above all, there was the blissful solitude. Actual hours, connected one to the other, sometimes stretching into entire days during which she didn’t have to so much as say hello to anyone. No disentangling Park rats’ messy lives, no cleaning up auntie-made messes, no fighting over the goddamn Suulutaq Mine. Peace was what she had, a rare and perfect—
A polite cough. “Excuse me.”
Kate came bolt upright at the same moment Mutt leaped to her feet. They both looked in the direction of the voice. Mutt growled. Kate felt like it.
She shaded her eyes against the sun. “Who—Oh. Holly, Holly Haynes, right? Suulutaq geologist?”
“Right.” The other woman came forward, a tentative smile on her face, and they shook hands. Kate hadn’t seen her since the case of the disappearing miner the month before. “Sorry to bother you. You looked pretty comfortable.” She looked at Mutt, who was still growling.
“Mutt.”
Mutt held the growl for a few seconds more before shutting it down, just so Kate would know it was her own idea. Truth was, she was as embarrassed as Kate. It had been a long time since either one of them had allowed anyone to sneak up on them.
“I didn’t hear your car,” Kate said.
Haynes made a vague gesture behind her. “I wasn’t sure I had the right place, so I parked at the turnoff and walked in.”
Kate nodded and promised herself that whoever had given Haynes directions to her homestead would pay for it one day. It wasn’t like she hated the very sight of Suulutaq’s staff geologist, but Kate did not approve of people dropping by uninvited. Besides, she had the uneasy
feeling that her holiday had just been, if not ruined, say then shortened by press of business, and duty.
Contrary to conventional wisdom, it was not good to be queen.
She led the way back to the house. There she offered Haynes her choice of coffee or Diet 7UP and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. It was as far as she was prepared to go in hospitality, and she hoped it would discourage Haynes from a long visit. Mutt had followed them as far as the deck, and through the living room windows Kate had a clear view of her sprawled in the sun. Kate wished she were there with her. “How are things out at the mine?” she said, and thought, Me making polite conversation. Just shoot me now.
Haynes finished one cookie and reached for another. “Fine. Drill baby drill.”
Kate smiled in spite of herself. “Found the limits of the deposit yet?”
Haynes, mouth full, shook her head. “Every time we think we’ve got to the edge, the edge moves out from under us.”
Kate gave a wise nod like she knew something about gold mining, when all she really knew was that all gold miners were nuts. She didn’t know if that extended to gold miners who pulled it out of the ground in commercial quantities, but she wouldn’t bet against it. “So, that must make you happy,” she said.
“It makes Global Harvest happy,” Haynes said. “I’m just doing my job.”
Haynes was devouring the plate of cookies as if she wasn’t expecting to eat ever again. She was thin to the point of gauntness, something that hadn’t registered on Kate at their first meeting, which gave Haynes the hollow-eyed look of either an insomniac or a fanatic. “Not a job after your own heart?” Kate said.
Haynes paused in the act of reaching for a fifth cookie, met Kate’s eyes, and seemed to recollect herself. “Oh yes. I love geology, I never wanted to study or work at anything else. It’s just—”
“Yes?” Kate said, when Haynes hesitated.
Haynes shrugged. “I just don’t know if the world needs another gold mine.”
“It’s a pretty useful metal,” Kate said.
Haynes shrugged again. “Jewelry.”
“A good conductor of electricity, too,” Kate said.
“Embroidery thread,” Haynes said, wincing around a bite of cookie.
“Reflects electromagnetic radiation,” Kate said, “they use it on satellites, and astronauts’ space suits, and airplanes.” An inner voice did wonder who she was trying to convince.